


The Storm

by elizaye



Series: FWB!verse [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Castiel is a fan of Sherlock Holmes, Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Rimming, Storms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-20 23:16:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaye/pseuds/elizaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a storm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Storm

Castiel curls up on the couch with his cup of hot chocolate and draws the blanket back up around him with his free hand.  The news is still blaring on the television, talks about flooding all around the city—especially in his neighborhood.

Freak storms in January.  Who would’ve thought?

He’d been at Dean’s two evenings ago for his birthday dinner—neither Sam nor Mr. Winchester could make it home—when the rain started falling.  By sometime past midnight, when he was preparing to leave, it had turned into a deluge, but he’d managed to get home safely in a cab.

Of course, the rain didn’t let up for the next day, and the winds only got worse.  That night, just as Castiel was cranking up the heater, the power cut off.  According to Dean, who still had access to news from the outside world, all the power lines from his neighborhood—and numerous other parts of the city—had been taken down by the high-speed winds.  It hadn’t taken _too_ much convincing for Castiel to let Dean come over and pick him up.  After all, Castiel wasn’t overly fond of the prospect of freezing his balls off.

He tunes out the reporter and cups the steaming mug between both hands, lost in thought.

Castiel doesn’t like staying at Dean’s house—mansion—whatever.  He doesn’t like how familiar he’s become with layout of the rooms, the feel of the furniture in each room, the fucking arrangement of the cutlery in the kitchen.  It speaks of a relationship that he really doesn’t have with Dean, and that hurts.

Another thing Castiel doesn’t like is having so much free time, because he inevitably ends up sinking into thoughts that he’d be better off not thinking.  It’s easy to pour himself into his work, even if he’s sick and tired of reading papers about ancient art and architecture, or museums and cases on _state theft_ and _wartime looting_ , because that’s somehow become part of his repertoire as well.  He _abhors_ being idle.

_My mind rebels at stagnation—give me problems, give me work…_

He’s never been as observant or quick-witted as Sherlock Holmes, but in this he can completely relate.  What is he supposed to do at times like these, when the newscaster is droning on and on in a monotone, and the rain is pouring down endlessly, and the university’s closed until the rain lets up and people can actually go back on the streets again?

“Cas?”

Dean’s voice is faint, coming from upstairs, and still gravelly with sleep.  Castiel isn’t sure why Dean bothers calling for him.  He should be used to waking up without Castiel there, shouldn’t he?  Castiel refuses to believe that Dean calls out for him every morning after.

Dean doesn’t actually make an appearance until about twenty minutes later, clad in sweats and a long-sleeved shirt, hair mussed and imprints of the sheets still on his cheeks.

“Mornin’, Cas,” he says with a small smile.

Castiel nods blankly.  He still feels off, like he needs something to hold onto, something to focus on.

“You okay, man?”

“This… doesn’t agree with me.”

“What doesn’t agree with you?”

“Inactivity.  I need something to work on, but I have nothing.  All of my papers are graded, I finished typing up those reports yesterday, and now…”

“Dude.  Relax, then.  You know you don’t have to be working every second of every day, don’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I know that.  It’s just that I…” Just that he doesn’t like sitting at Dean’s house-mansion with nothing to do but be reminded of Dean by every single thing in sight.

“You…?” Dean prompts, reminding Castiel that he never finished his thought.

“Never mind.”

Dean exhales noisily and plops down on the couch beside Castiel, jostling him.

“Careful!” Castiel yelps, but the hot chocolate is already halfway gone, and it’s lukewarm by now, wouldn’t have burned him even if it _had_ sloshed out.

Dean just chuckles and takes the cup from him, reaching over to set it down on the coffee table before tugging at Castiel’s blanket.

“Hey, get your own,” Castiel protests petulantly.

“C’mon, it’s _my_ blanket.  Share,” Dean insists, and then he’s worming his way under the thick cover and pulling Castiel into his chest.

Castiel huffs grumpily but doesn’t struggle, letting Dean rearrange their limbs until he’s comfortable.  They end up turned sideways, Dean leaning back against an armrest with Castiel settled between his legs.  The blanket gets tangled around their legs with all the shuffling, but Dean jerks it free and pulls it over both of them before wrapping his arms around Castiel.

“God, why are you watching the _news?_   You’re so _boring_ ,” Dean complains, and Castiel just laughs.  “Where’s the remote?”

“Armrest.”

Dean glances at the armrest over by their feet, and when Castiel looks up at his face, it’s clear that Dean’s calculating whether or not it’d be worth it to reach all the way over for it—it _does_ look ridiculously far away, now that they’re wrapped together in this warm cocoon.

“Ugh, you suck,” Dean mutters, and it appears the warmth has won over Dean’s boredom.

“I find your lack of interest in current events mildly troubling,” Castiel comments, and Dean groans.

“Cas, who even _says_ shit like that?”

“Apparently, I do.”

Castiel can practically _feel_ Dean rolling his eyes at that.  But Dean doesn’t answer, and they fall silent.  Dean leans forward slightly and rubs his cheek against Castiel’s temple before pressing a light kiss to it, and Castiel hates the skip in his heartbeat at that, hates the things that these gestures do to him.  Dean’s a tactile person—this is how he seeks comfort in other people.  It doesn’t mean anything more than that.

“Can you please just relax?” Dean murmurs, and his words come out against the skin of Castiel’s neck, because apparently he dropped his head while Castiel wasn’t paying attention.  Of course, feeling Dean’s lips there makes him tense up involuntarily.

“Sorry,” Castiel responds, forcing his body to go lax.  He’s gotten very skilled at this, at forcing heaviness into his limbs, at leaning back into the hard warmth of Dean’s chest.  If anything, he’s gotten too good at it, too used to it.  And when he loses this, when this isn’t allowed anymore, it’s going to kill him.

When the tension eases out of Castiel’s body, Dean practically purrs with contentment, and it says something that Dean can tell the exact moment when Castiel relaxes.  He presses one, two, three quick kisses to the bend of Castiel’s neck before lifting his head again.

“Mm, this is great,” he mumbles.

“What—are you falling asleep, already?  You literally _just_ woke up.”

“Not going anywhere,” Dean continues as though he hasn’t spoken, and Castiel wonders whether Dean’s not half-asleep already, because he’s not making much sense.

“Yeah, I get that, you lazy ass.”

“Rain’s awesome.”

Castiel sighs and resigns himself to a morning trapped on the couch with a sleepy—sleeping?—and thus useless-as-a-distraction Dean.

* * *

“Cas, _come on_ ,” Dean groans.

Castiel ignores him, focusing on laving across Dean’s hip instead.  He’s just worked his way—licking, kissing, biting, sucking— down Dean’s body, head to toe and then right back up again.  He’s been taking his time, hasn’t given Dean’s cock any attention at all, and he knows just how desperate Dean must be feeling right now.

He sucks a mark into that delicious hip, and Dean makes a frustrated sound.  “Fucking—blow me, Cas.”

Castiel lifts his head up so that he can look at Dean, up the long length of delectable torso stretched out before him.  “I thought we’d agreed that it’s my turn tonight.”

Last night, starting around seven pm, Dean fucked him five or six times—he’s not sure because he fucking _lost count_ between orgasms—punctuated by one or two-hour breaks, and by the time they collapsed after the last round, the sun was up already.  Castiel spent most of today crashed on the couch in the upstairs den, recovering.

So yes, tonight it’s his turn to take what he wants, and his ass is _still_ fucking sore after the marathon of battering it took last night, so Dean’s just gonna have to suck it up and deal.

“Ugh, you’re such a _dick_ , Cas,” Dean complains as Castiel grabs his hips and manhandles him until he’s on his hands and knees.

“Haven’t done your back yet,” Castiel mutters, crawling up until he’s settled over Dean, arms braced on either side of his broad back.  It’s a bit of a stretch to reach the bed because Castiel’s arms are shorter than Dean’s, so Dean drops down onto his elbows.

And then Castiel gets to work on Dean’s back, mouthing down the back of his neck and across to his right shoulder, down to his right shoulder blade, and back up to the base of his neck again.  He bites down here, and Dean tenses, lets out a gasp of surprise.  Castiel loves pulling that small, vulnerable sound out of him, loves that Dean trusts him enough to let him do it.

Dean’s posture is stiff, though, because he hasn’t taken it up the ass before, and Castiel can sense his discomfort with the feeling of Castiel’s dick pressed so close to his entrance.  So he takes it slowly, nips and kisses his way down Dean’s smooth, smooth skin, unmarred except for a few errant freckles, and _god_ , he’s never appreciated the muscle definition in Dean’s back as much as he does right now.

_You’re beautiful_ , he doesn’t say.  _I love you_ , he doesn’t add.

By the time Castiel’s about halfway down Dean’s back, Dean has relaxed much more, head bent down to rest on his hands.  His muscles flex now and then when Castiel’s lips make contact, and he’s sweating slightly—the heat in the bedroom is ramped up high because it’s so cold outside.

Castiel pauses his trip down Dean’s back when he hits the two dimples of bone, just before the swell of Dean’s ass.  He tongues at the left dip, open-mouthed and sloppy, and Dean groans, his entire body shuddering.  Castiel catalogues that reaction and does the same for the other side, loving that the only taste in his mouth is—and has been for the last twenty minutes or so— _Dean_.

“C’mon, Cas, finish up,” Dean urges in a low voice, and Castiel’s almost surprised by how fucked-out it sounds, given that Dean hasn’t blown him recently.

Castiel shifts lower and bites down on Dean’s ass, earning him a startled yelp followed immediately by an indignant growl.  “My turn,” Castiel chides Dean softly, and Dean subsides without further protest.  Castiel takes his time laving over the indentations left by his teeth and then pressing soft kisses into Dean’s cheeks, something he’s sure Dean would tease him about if he weren’t so strung-out.

Dean doesn’t seem to notice at first when Castiel uses both hands to spread his cheeks slightly, because he stiffens abruptly at the first touch of Castiel’s tongue at his hole.

“C-Cas?”

This isn’t something they’ve done before—in fact, Castiel’s never actually gone anywhere near Dean’s ass—isn’t even something they’ve _talked_ about before.  But Castiel feels sure, sure that Dean will like this, that Dean trusts him.

“Shh, relax,” Castiel breathes into the dark heat of him, thumbs rubbing against Dean’s cheeks even as he spreads them farther.  Dean’s hips shift uneasily, and Castiel just leans in, swipes his tongue across the tight furl of muscle once, just tasting, before lapping over it again, again.

“Oh— _oh_ — _oh, fuck_ —” Dean’s gasping, and his hips seem to push back toward Castiel involuntarily.

Castiel makes sure Dean doesn’t move too much, holding him mostly still as he starts to press forward, and it’s been a long time since he last did this, _years_ since he first tried it, and he really can’t remember whether they were all this sensitive, or if it’s just Dean.  He hesitates, grip loosening on Dean’s hips to give him the opportunity to squirm away.

But Dean shifts back, grinds back into his face, and Castiel could never turn down so blatant an invitation.

He lets his mouth fall wider open, works his tongue against Dean’s opening, twists against the tightness until just the tip gets inside— _Jesus, fuck!_ Dean bites out—and once the tip is in, he just has to _push_ into that heat.  And Dean’s _tight_ —never been touched, of course he’d be—and Castiel can’t help but imagine how it’d feel to have this surrounding his cock, or hell, even his fingers.

Dean presses back against his tongue, and Castiel withdraws, thrusts, withdraws, thrusts, licks into him firmly and implacably.

“Cas—Cas, _fuck_ —”

That’s Dean panting, _whimpering_ , as Castiel jabs his tongue into his body, filthy wet and needing.  Castiel works his way in, deeper, and hears the way Dean’s voice drops, feels the way Dean’s body is winding tighter and tighter, and _Christ_ , is he really so close, from this?  But Castiel might have teased too long, and Dean keens, losing control of his hips as he rocks back to meet Castiel’s tongue.

And then Dean is seizing, moaning, muscles undulating around Castiel’s tongue, come splashing down onto the sheets, and Castiel can hardly believe that this—this is _for him_ —he _did_ this.

Dean collapses against the bed, breathing hard, and Castiel crawls back up over him to press a few sloppy, openmouthed kisses against his shoulder.

“Holy _fuck_ , Cas,” Dean slurs, and his eyelids are drooping, his voice sounds _hoarse_.

“Hmm,” Castiel hums in response, and he nips the back of Dean’s neck, right where a dark bruise is blossoming.  He starts to back off, but Dean reaches a hand back to grab at him.

“But… you didn’t…” Dean protests halfheartedly.

Castiel smiles, leans down to kiss Dean’s neck one more time before brushing his hand off and crawling out of bed, tugging the covers up and over Dean—he’d stay for a few minutes, but it’ll be hard to leave once Dean’s got a hold of him.  Dean’s eyes are already closed, breathing evening out, and it makes sense that after last night’s marathon, all of tonight’s teasing would wear him out.

“Good night, Dean,” Castiel whispers before taking off for the guest room.


End file.
